


Birthmark

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many different truths to what Sylar means to Mohinder</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthmark

If one were to ask Mohinder what he thinks of Sylar the first word to spring to mind would be _hate_.

_Treacherous monster _would not be far behind. He no longer requires the meditative introspection that coloured the first handful of years with strong emotions and brutal intent. Chandra, an ever-present whisper over his shoulder, has taken to a hibernating slumber but the barbarity brought down by that _other_ life is only nominally dissipated.

Despising—another strong word—Sylar has been so much a part of him, inescapable, inerasable, that it is difficult for Mohinder to recall the time when his life was not yet touched by the murderer. The skin Mohinder wears in his present existence feels like a well-worn sweater; frayed at the edges, bendable to the contours of his body, comfortable and familiar. When thought of in that context Sylar’s appearance in his life, the permanence of it, is Mohinder’s birthmark. A disfigurement of insurmountable proportions, he is etched in Mohinder’s flesh.

That he did not dislike Sylar from the start only makes it worse. Self-flagellation marks Mohinder’s soul for not knowing the terrible truth immediately, despite logic cutting him some slack. The carefully crafted mask—how could he know otherwise? How could not?

The recurring theme of Sylar that permeates longwinded discussions and off-kilter thoughts, as much in outspoken analysis as in abstract suggestions, finds Mohinder falling back on deliberately selected words, harsh in tone, with serrated edges that cut deep.

Reactions to such callousness are as expected. Bennet is distractedly mindful—when he cares to pay attention. Matt matches angry word for angry word and Peter accepts Mohinder’s dismissive attitude as some final sermon on the subject. In addition to Molly’s fear dressed in steady questioning eyes, it is all fuel for Mohinder’s fire.

Only Nathan and Hiro rest their hands on top of the bladed words to bring pause to the oozing wounds. The hopeful idealism Mohinder sees in Hiro’s eyes that speaks of the possibility—thought to be long gone—for Sylar only serves to draw Mohinder’s hurt forward.

That muted pain finds a distanced companionship in Nathan’s reserved stature with only the barest of mentions of his own controlled and unrealized life. In a cryptic guessing game Mohinder sketches in the tormenting lines of Nathan and Angela, Gabriel and Virginia. World’s apart and still there is a ticking in the overlap.

Too little, too late. No excuses allowed. No justifications entertained.

Bearing witness to Sylar’s confident swagger commanding the room, being held in Sylar’s pooling black eyes jeering him to try to look away, feeling Sylar’s pinching fingers pressing his skin into blue and purple, Mohinder fights to tone down the blistering verbal assault within that elicits an (_appreciative_?) smirk from oppositional lips.

But words are equal opportunity offenders. Even the harshest can transform into empty vessels. Sylar sparks an instantaneous response from Mohinder that has become more reactionary, even with the one-fifth fraction of truth that Mohinder calls upon for belligerent reinforcements.

Little thought, if any, precedes Mohinder’s declarative proclamations regarding Sylar. The revelation, when he affords himself the opportunity to over-think it, is that his continued hate for Sylar is more for show than a firmly held belief. The desire to avenge his father is still there but so much has happened since that priorities have shifted and motivations have been rechecked. And then there is always—

Mohinder’s knee-jerk descent into vehement retaliation is for his own peace of mind. It insists there can be only one predicated response to Sylar. Everyone expects it of Mohinder. He expects it of himself. Yet there is hollowness at the core, a lack of conviction behind the insistence. The words are a set piece, a practiced monologue to be pulled out and performed, but the heart that was once in it now beats a different tune. Drumming out words silenced by the turn of circumstance Mohinder looks the other way. But he is not impervious to the heavy limbs that slow his body in the endeavour; he cannot disguise the chasm that fissures his mind.

In the middle world of twilight, when his unleashed thoughts test projected boundaries, he is all too aware of confessions made to the moonlight, of feelings first proffered as a case closing bloodied weapon detailing guilt-ridden shame.

In the languishing countdown between day and night, and later in the deadened world of the witching hour, when Mohinder lets go it is not only unbridled abhorrence but repentant apologies he bids adieu to until a new day begins. Acceptance can breed contentment; there is solace in the known. Mohinder wraps it around his body like a blanket. Rolling around, stretching it out over tensed then relaxed limbs, it snuggles a stranglehold against his skin. The struggle is air to his lungs and breath to his body.

His pursuit of Sylar and the act of being chased by the same man entices each step, chosen and challenged, that Mohinder takes. With the flush of strategic game-play he cannot help wondering if his life before was a drawn out preparation with all roads leading to this. Sylar is one fraction of the purpose that has lit a fuse in Mohinder’s life, but Mohinder anticipates outsmarting him the most.

Sylar is the blue moon eclipse that rarely shows its face, all the better for Mohinder to focus on more pertinent issues, but when the time comes (and it always does) Sylar is an encompassing fact of nature, a universal law that steps up Mohinder’s every sense. He should be disappointed in such a misfortunate acquaintance, and for show he is—but not for keeps.

As sordid as it sounds Sylar is Mohinder’s favourite mistake. The call back he offers Mohinder to the start of this life is a kryptonite memento that Mohinder fists with anger and hunger. The specifics he keeps under lock and key, after all no one needs to know the special conditions that Mohinder applies to the man who has repeatedly diverted his life’s already altered direction.

The over-thinking that once dogged every step becomes reserved for the truly contemplative of moments and he keeps the extremes of reactionary quips and footnoted analysis at arm’s length.

Hate is the first word that comes to mind when Mohinder is asked about Sylar, but there is nothing straightforward about it.

A blemish. A beauty mark.

Hate is a strong sentiment that only tells half the story—the obvious half, the overt portion, the blatant text.

The other half—the quieted inference, the suggestive subtext—is Mohinder’s counterbalance that keeps the scale in check and his own movements progressively steady.

One would not exist without the other.

Mohinder would not wish it any other way.


End file.
